


Haunted

by Savageseraph



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Bruises, Dark, Drugged Sex, Grief/Mourning, Headaches & Migraines, Incest, Injury, Loss, M/M, Medicinal Drug Use, Memories, Non-Consensual, Obedience, Regret, Sexual Abuse, Sleep, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-11
Updated: 2009-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-02 17:15:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageseraph/pseuds/Savageseraph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You okay, son?"  John rested a hand on Dean's good shoulder as he started to list forward, close to tumbling out of bed and onto the floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haunted

**Author's Note:**

> Dark sex, dark fic. Thanks to [](http://caras-galadhon.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://caras-galadhon.livejournal.com/)**caras_galadhon**, best of betas.

"You okay, son?" John rested a hand on Dean's good shoulder as he started to list forward, close to tumbling out of bed and onto the floor. Dean had taken the worst of the attacks launched by the haunt they'd just put down. The claw marks on his son's shoulder were washed with holy water and treated with antibiotic ointment, but John worried the deeper ones might need stitches. He'd have to check them tomorrow morning when he changed the bandages to be sure.

"Hmmm?" Dean blinked, tried to focus on John's face, on his words.

"Lie down." The words came out more order than suggestion, and even doped up on painkillers, Dean was obedient. He sprawled back onto the bed, and John gathered his legs at the ankles, swung them onto the mattress. "Rest, son."

"'M okay. Be okay in the morning." The words were halting, clumsy. They trailed off, growing softer, and not long after they stopped, Dean started snoring softly.

John sighed. He worried sometimes he was getting too old for hunting. What if he was getting too slow? Losing his edge? What if he slipped up, gave some monster the opening it needed to hook its claws into Dean or Sam? Would they be better without him? He sat on the side of the bed, rubbing at his temples and the pain that beat between them like a second heartbeat. At least Sam was away, chasing ordinary dreams instead of extraordinary nightmares. John leaned over, rifled through his bag for a bottle of pills. He needed to swallow a handful of aspirin and let sleep bring some brief respite. That's how so many nights ended for him after Mary died.

Closing his eyes, he saw Mary, still young and very much alive. She was working in the garden, and he'd come up behind her, tickling the back of her neck as he nuzzled at it. If they'd had a fence around the yard or neighbors who didn't live so close, he would have flipped her green sundress over her ass and slid into her right there. Neighbors be damned, he should have done it. He licked his lips, tasted regret.

Everyone said that time would help him heal his loss, but it hadn't. If anything, he felt the ache of her absence more, not less. Dean muttered something that wasn't close to being words, rolled over onto his stomach. John touched Dean's head lightly; he had his mother's hair. The gold, the easy laughter, the infectious smile: all things she gave to her oldest son.

He eased down Dean's pants to make him more comfortable, cursing softly as he did. Tomorrow, he and Dean were going to have a talk about how going commando when hunting was not appropriate. His skin was so warm, and as John's fingers grazed Dean's thighs, he stirred, sighed, shifted, his legs parting slightly. John swallowed, looked away, but not before his cock stirred sluggishly. Apparently, propriety was lacking in both of them.

Reaching out blindly, John felt for the uneven skin he'd seen earlier and spread some ointment over a scrape on Dean's hip. Dean's soft, dreamy sighs at the brush of his fingers made John harden enough that he opened his own jeans. He hoped his erection would be easier to ignore once it was freed from the confinement and constriction of the denim. Whatever relief his action brought was shadowed by the thought that only a thin layer of cotton separated him from pressing against Dean's skin, from sliding into his heat.

John shook his head, intending to pull his fingers away from Dean, but almost against his will, he watched them slide over his son's ass, slip between his cheeks. Dean made a fuzzy sound as he slid a finger slowly into him. John moaned softly as he watched it disappear into Dean's heat. This was wrong. _Wrong._ He wanted Mary. The ache in his chest, in his balls, was for her. For _Mary._ He drew several deep breaths.

Mary was gone.

After a few slow, experimental thrusts, John slid a second finger in with the first, both slowly thrusting and stretching. Mary was gone. He needed her, and she was gone; and if he couldn't have her, he'd have what part of her he could. Dean stirred, made a confused sound as a third finger joined the others. That couldn't be wrong, could it? Dean would understand. Even if he didn't, he was a good son. He would obey.

"Dad...? Wha...?" Dean's words were slurred as he tried to surface from sleep and the pills.

"It's okay, son." John groaned softly as he coated his cock with the ointment, then pressed against Dean. "It's okay." Dean's body was pliant from the drugs, but as he pressed into him, Dean cried out, tightened so perfectly around him. He wanted to go slowly, savor the slow slide in, but he'd been without for too long and as soon as Dean unwound a little, he thrust in deeply.

"What're you doing?" Dean shifted, tried to push up, and gripped John several times as he held him down. "Don't.... Please don't...."

John thrust heavily into his son's heat, groaning at the tightness, the sweet friction. With his pulse pounding in his ears, throbbing through his body, it was easy to mistake the string of drug-slurred "no's" Dean voiced for moans, easy to mistake his sounds of helpless frustration for frustrated need. When Dean clawed at the sheets, it was passion, not a struggle to escape. When Dean rocked against him, it wasn't because he was trying to buck him off, it was to take each thrust harder. Deeper. John's fingers tightened on Dean's hips, helping him by pulling him back into each thrust. He never expected how his son's hips would feel under his grip, how he would tighten just perfectly around his cock.

How could he think anything else when John slid a hand under Dean's body, and felt his son's cock hard against his belly? He grunted when Dean cried out as his cock twitched at the touch. He liked it just as much as John did. Oh, yes, he _liked_ it. His cock wouldn't be so hard and hot if he didn't. John's thrusts picked up speed as he stroked his son firmly. God help him, he liked it too, liked it enough that this one taste was already making him hungry for the next.

Dean cried out sharply--almost like he did when the haunt's nails scored his flesh--as he gripped John's cock tightly and spilled over his hand. The clenching heat was enough to pull John over as well, and he groaned deeply as he came. Once he'd caught his breath, he slid free, touched Dean's side, and then pulled back as Dean flinched and cried out at the touch. "Son...?"

"Why?" The word trembled, broke as Dean's voice did. He swallowed, looked up, eyes red and glassy. "_Why, Dad?_"

John blinked, stood, took several steps back. Bruises were already starting to stain Dean's hips and come trickled down his thigh. His jeans were still bunched around his ankles. He looked perverse, sullied. Used. Dean's body shook as he buried his face in the pillows. "What did I do? Oh god, what have I done?" John staggered back another two steps, stopping when he bumped into someone who wrapped strong arms around him.

A voice then, an oily whisper in John's ear, "Welcome to Hell, John. We're going to enjoy having you here."


End file.
